


Case 37: The Adventure Of The Hawke Inheritance (1883)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [48]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, England (Country), F/M, Impersonation, Inheritance, Lawyers, London, M/M, Religion, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-08-19 06:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16529495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ Sometimes bad things happen to good people – but when they look set to keep happening, Sherlock takes measures that involve one of the most powerful ladies in London and a handy bishop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John Dean Watson is one of the most stolid men of my acquaintance. So it was a rare thing for him to be totally lost for words. But when I queried his notes from one of our cases in which he had referred to me as 'a modern-day Robin Hood', I had pointed out that I was not a thief of any sort. He had explained that he meant that I gave justice to all regardless of their wealth, and I had countered by suggesting that next thing I knew the _'Strand'_ magazine would be picturing me in a short tunic and hose with a huge weapon at my command. 

I do not know why that made him cough so much. Everyone knows the average longbow is as tall as a man, and a huge weapon indeed.

His point was perhaps an ill-expressed one but he was correct in one aspect at least; I was determined to apply justice to all. Justice, not just the word of law. And I very rarely showed any favouritism. Except perhaps in this one instance where in my humble opinion it was totally merited.

֍

Lawyers have an oftentimes deservedly poor reputation, but there are some who consider things other than the size of their next fee. One such was Mr. Edward Pelligrew whom I knew through Stamford from my short time in Oxford. I had assisted him in a very small matter some years back since when we had remained in contact, and when he asked to see me over 'a difficult matter' I agreed at once. Considering how his profession often teostss and turns the English language in court, it was to prove a rare case of understatement on his part.

 

Mr. Pelligrew was in his mid-thirties at this time, a cadaverous blond fellow with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles which seemed to serve little purpose as he was always looking over them. He was clearly nervous for some reason so I invited him in and bade him sit down. He did so and stared at us both for at least a minute in silence.

“This is difficult”, he said at last.

“You said that in your letter”, I said patiently. “How 'difficult'? Has a crime been committed in some way?”

“No”, he said to my surprise. “At least, not yet.”

I looked at him curiously.

“But you are afraid that something _might_ happen”, I hazarded. “And something serious, otherwise you would have employed the official channels to be on the safe side should the matter ever come to court, rather than risked coming to me.”

He nodded.

“My father recently acquired a place for me at Hammond, Soubry & Rudd”, he said carefully.

I did not think that I reacted the way I wanted to but Watson looked across at me sharply. He really was knowing me too well of late.

“The late Lord Toby Hawke's lawyers?” I inquired coldly. That company had, I knew, been less than helpful following the tragic death of the young nobleman and his successor Lord Theobald had understandably sought legal advice elsewhere. Our visitor clearly picked up on my annoyance and hurried on.

“Yes”, he said, seemingly and very suddenly fascinated by the floor. “And yes. It does concern..... him.”

“What is it that you want?” I said more than a little brusquely. Mr. Pelligrew looked pained.

“It is difficult to explain”, he said evasively. “Have you met Lord Theobald Hawke by any chance?”

I did actually know of that gentleman as John's friend Peter Greenwood had treated him a short time back.

“I have not”, I said, “although I have heard of his sad affliction. He and I tend to move in rather different social circles as I am sure you are well aware. I did hear that he had broken off his engagement recently though I do not know who it had been to.”

I looked expectantly at Watson, who pouted. I was not going to comment on his fondness for the social pages but I did not have to.

“A lady called Miss Gabriella Dixon”, he said. “The granddaughter of the ate Lord Heversham who sat in the House of Lords. The newspapers have since speculated that they only became engaged to please him as he was dying, and it rather looks as if they were right for once.”

“I do not think that that is part of the problem”, my former fellow student said. “More serious is that with Lord Theobald not having any children there is the problem of who would inherit the title.”

“And that is?” I asked.

An interesting observation; even those in the legal profession find it hard not to hesitate before framing a lie. Or even a half-truth.

“His nephew Mr. Harry Buckingham”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “As you probably know Lord Theobald is at twenty-five considerably younger than either of his sisters; indeed Mr. Henry Buckingham, Lord Theobald's brother-in-law, acted as steward for the estate because he inherited it when he was but two years of age, although the boy's father Lord Stephen did come out of retirement to assist. Harry is twenty-three now and his parent's elder son; I believe that his birth was a difficult one because they had no more children and later adopted a distant cousin of the Hawke family who, by coincidence, was named Henry. He is only a year younger than his adoptive brother; unusually for siblings they get on most excellently.”

I could hardly disagree with him over his observations on the standard brother relationship but I still worried about that pause and the feeling that he was not being wholly truthful with me.

“Are either of the young gentlemen married yet?” I inquired.

“Henry married earlier this year”, our visitor said. “Harry was until recently associated with one Miss Elizabeth Dunn, daughter of the Conservative politician of that name, but it seems that they were indeed just good friends.”

(I could not then know that the eventual marriage of this Mr. Harry Buckingham would ultimately have personal repercussions for my good self).

“Her father is the one who the _'Times'_ calls 'Never Dunn Talking'”, John snarked. He really was terrible at times.

I was still wondering just how truthful our visitor was being with me. A test, perhaps.

“Would you require me to go down to Wiltshire at all?” I asked casually. I knew that the Hawke's family seat of Brunton Hall is in the east of that county.

“I would hope to spare you the trouble”, he said. 

That time his reaction had been a little _too_ quick. There was more to this matter than he was saying but I would have to be careful in finding out what that was if only for the memory of poor Lord Tobias. I thought of my client Mr. Billingsley from a few years back; he had since married and had a son of his own, and was happy enough. Yet now the Hawke family was in trouble again.

They deserved better. And I would make sure that they got it.

“So what is the problem with this Mr. Harry Buckingham?” I asked.

“Character-wise he is a fine fellow”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “Despite not being a Hawke by name he is very much the image of his great-grandfather Lord Marcus, whom Lord Tobias also took after. You know how sometimes fine looks elicit jealousy from those around them but I have not found anyone with a bad word to say about the fellow.”

I did actually know of Lord Marcus, a rather vain fellow whose massive portrait had been 'gifted' to the National Gallery where I had seen it one time. I remember suspecting that it had been a rather unwelcome 'gift' and unfortunately not one that the recipient could take back and exchange for something better. Although I doubted that short of putting it into storage they could have found a darker room in which to display the monstrosity which one newspaper had quipped was almost as large as its subject's ego.

“Go on”, I said.

“As you can imagine, Lord Theobald's declining state of health has focussed his mind on the succession”, my visitor said. “A clause in the estate rules mean that anyone who inherits has to be of the Protestant Faith. And his nephew-cum-heir-presumptive has recently made the acquaintance of a Jesuit priest, a Father Humilis who I believe seeks to convert him.”

“He would give up the Hawke estate for religion?” Watson asked, clearly surprised.

“He is a most earnest young gentleman”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “And he will inherit his father Mr. Buckingham's business one day which would most likely be more than enough for his needs. If he converted _before_ a marriage then any children would be debarred; if after a marriage it would then depend on what religion they were raised as.”

“So to the obvious question”, I said. _”Cui bono?_ Who is next in line after Mr. Harry Buckingham?”

“That is where it gets even more difficult”, Mr. Pelligrew sighed. “The Hawke estate cannot pass to an adopted son so his brother Henry is debarred although from what I hear he is quite all right with that. The title cannot pass to a woman but it can go through the female line. Mr. Harry's aunt Elizabeth, Lord Theobald's other sister, married twice. Her first marriage which was ill-starred from the outset was to a Mr. Simeon Hebburn. A most unpleasant fellow who actually struck her, would you believe? I cannot understand how it got as far as the altar myself, but it was dissolved within a threemonth. Some little time after she married a much more respectable gentleman called Mr. Kevin Winteringham, a businessman from County Durham. They have four children; a boy William who is twelve, a girl named after her mother who is ten and the twins Kevin and Kingsley who are six.”

I wondered at that.

“Did the family oppose the first union?” I asked.

“Very strongly”, he said. “The girl saw through the man once they had been wed so all was well in the end. Unfortunately the rat is still around and he has recently tried to claim that the marriage was never formally dissolved. Utter hogwash of course but if it were true it would thereby invalidate the claims of the four children.”

“I suppose that the family have tried to pay him off?” I ventured.

Judging from our visitor's red face that particular surmise had been correct. People were so predictable.

“In the unlikely event that such a claim stood up in court the next in line would be the late Lord Stephen's only surviving brother Lord David”, he said obviously eager to move on. “He is nearly sixty and in poor health but he does have four sons of his own to continue the lineage and of course they are all Hawkes. However the eldest son Hugh is a _very_ moral gentleman and I cannot see him being involved in anything even remotely questionable. Although I had wondered if his father was behind this turbulent priest as some of his own business transactions have been.... interesting.”

Borderline illegal, I translated. Watson was becoming a bad influence on me.

“The last turbulent priest was poor Thomas Becket”, I said. “Let us hope that this matter ends rather less bloodily!”

֍


	2. Chapter 2

Since this was the second time of many that the Hawke family was to play a role in my life I shall take Watson's advice and provide some background information on them including something that only came out much later in my life. They can trace their roots back to a gentleman called Eadwulf, an alderman under the famous King Athelstan who created England in the tenth century, but the first recorded surname does not appear until the thirteenth in the Lincolnshire rolls. The family was Northern-based for some centuries but in 1620 one Ichabod Hawke moved to Wiltshire where he became a devout Puritan. He named his first two sons Tenacious and Freewill, but with the sort of inevitability that these things have the younger son rebelled and, on joining the Royalist side in the English Civil War, changed his name to Petronius (his mother's preference, apparently). 

Ichabod and his elder son both fell at the fateful Battle of Naseby in 1645 and the family estates were seized by parliament. Petronius Hawke was then one of the few Protestant gentlemen to assist in the flight of the future King Charles the Second after the disastrous Battle of Worcester in 1651, a royal tie strengthened when Petronius' daughter Jane became one of the Merry Monarch's many mistresses after the Restoration. I should also mention Petronius' other daughter Catherine married one Mr. Neil Rosen, and that the old commander would have been delighted to have known that such a literary giant lay among his descendants and Watson can stop smirking like that _right now!_

The family then narrowly avoided danger when Petronius, quite possibly under pressure from his royal patron, converted to Catholicism shortly before the Glorious Revolution of 1688 but fortunately he died on the same day that William of Orange landed in the West Country, Guy Fawkes' Night, and was succeeded by his grandson Stephen I. Indeed until the unhappy events surrounding poor Lord Tobias whom I had so admired (and who was in fact my seventh cousin) the only real scandal of any note had been Mary Hawke marrying Mr. Henry Buckingham. I mean, marrying _trade?_

It is a good thing that my friend never reads the social pages of the newspapers and was able to provide me with all of the above information, is it not?

֍

One thing that a consulting detective needs to do his job well is of course information, and I was fortunate that one of my early small cases had been a service for a Miss Charlotta Bradbury who had then just started out as secretary to Mr. William Middleton. The latter gentleman was head of the information agency that bore his name and had gained a formidable reputation for knowing just about everything on just about everyone (it was said that if a sparrow fell off a tree in Whitechapel, within the hour he would know the manufacturers of the catapult used by the boy responsible, the number of feathers lost in the impact and what the boy had had for breakfast). If what I suspected from my knowledge of the Hawke family was true then this case would require very careful handling and a full knowledge of _all_ the facts beforehand.

(Watson had met Miss Bradbury one time and had subsequently remarked that that had been the first time a lady had not simpered at me. I had pointed out that all four of the secretaries in the outer office had done precisely that and he had done another of his glorious pouts. I was so bad to tease him like that but I had not been able to resist; I had however then taken him to his favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square afterwards where he had definitely not had that third slice of pie. It had just sort of disappeared on its own). 

Miss Bradbury received us cordially and, as I had expected (and hoped) had coffee and cakes at hand. I definitely caught an eye-roll from a certain medical acquaintance of mine as I may have been less than efficient in my removing a slice of coffee-cake from this world, but I said nothing. Instead I explained the situation as regarded the Hawkes and she nodded.

“A most shocking injustice”, she said. “It was fortunate that you and the doctor here were able to assist Mr Billingsley in his related problem. Indeed it is rather timely that you called when you did.”

I was on my guard at once.

“How so?” I asked politely. She smiled.

“Nothing bad”, she said reassuringly. “I received news two weeks ago that a certain person who had retired to a monastery on some Cornish island had passed. Given his track record of dying and not dying I naturally had to have it checked out, but it was confirmed two days ago. I did not let you know immediately as I also instituted a back-up check which has not yet come through.”

I was immensely relieved at that at least, even if I supposed that Satan deserved a mild condolence having to host Mr. Milton Carew for the rest of eternity.

“It is like this, Miss Bradbury”, I said. “I can see two likely explanations for what is happening down in Wiltshire at this time. The first I do not like much but I feel that it would be resolvable with care. The second is much more serious, especially given Lord Theobald Hawke's state of health just now.”

“I shall ask the obvious question”, she said. “Why do you not go to the Bourne Valley yourself?”

“Because if the second of those hypotheses is correct”, I said, “and regretfully it is the one I incline towards then I fear that my presence might be the end of poor Lord Theobald. The man has suffered enough of late in my opinion.”

Watson looked sharply at me. I was sure that neither I nor Miss Bradbury had given anything away yet he had spotted something amiss. 

“Yes, I see your point”, she said smoothly. “We are of course a metropolitan organization but I have several gentlemen – and ladies - who are prepared to travel to the provinces. I shall dispatch one there tomorrow to make inquiries. I shall contact you by couriered letter of course; I hardly think what I may have to communicate is fit for a telegram.”

“Thank you”, I smiled.

֍

I had no doubts that Miss Bradbury would come through for me in this and she duly did. We went to her office to hear the precise details, which as I had known did not improve the situation one jot. What a mess!

“What will you do?” she asked anxiously. 

“The first thing is to deal with this so-called priest”, I said. “Is he really in holy orders?”

“Not as such”, she said. “He was thrown out of the Catholic Church for stealing so set up his own church. As such he can _claim_ to be a priest in much the same way that any man could, although I doubt that he has revealed such verbal and legal niceties to his victim. One can achieve almost as much by not telling the whole truth as actually resorting to lying.”

“I would like to see young Mr. Harry Buckingham without poor Lord Theobald being made aware of it”, I said. “Would you know how I might manage that?”

Miss Bradbury nodded.

“He visits the priest at a small Catholic church in Marlborough from time to time”, she said. She passed over a small card to me. “And you may find it useful to take this gentleman with you when you go.”

I read the name on the card – William Clifford - and smiled.

“Thank you”, I said fervently.

֍


	3. Chapter 3

Normally one would have taken the Great Western to Reading and then to Savernake Junction for the branch to Marlborough. Instead however we remained on Brunel's masterpiece as far as Swindon, again enjoying the comfort of a fast-disappearing broad-gauge. Watson was surprised at my choice of route but I explained that we were meeting a gentleman in that town whose help was required in the case.

We reached the home of the Great Western railway's famous works and found Mr. William Clifford waiting at the station. He was a fine old gentleman in his sixties, clearly determined to help us in any way he could. And given the nature of one of the crimes involved I could understand that.

The Midland and South Western Junction Railway was then still under construction so we had a pleasant carriage ride of some ten miles across northern Wiltshire until we reached Marlborough. The town lay on the Great West Road but the late arrival of the Great Western Railway's branch to here had left it feeling a little in the past, its broad High Street and ancient buildings looking as if they had not quite caught up with the late nineteenth century. 

We called in briefly at the police station then headed for a small Catholic church in a side-street not far from the end of the High Street. The three of us entered a dimly-lit building. A priest was reading from behind a lectern at the far end and a single worshipper with a capon over his head was sat quietly in the first row not far from him. I heard a gasp from the gentleman beside me.

“Darling?”

It may have seemed an odd thing for him to say but the effect on the priest was electric. He stared at us both in horror.

“Boss! I mean....”

I grinned. At that moment a second priest, white-haired and elderly, emerged from a side-room.

“What is going on?” he asked plaintively before gasping as he too recognized the gentleman standing next to me. Well he might as it was his superior, the Bishop of Clifton.

_“Sir?”_

“What the blazes are you doing, allowing a defrocked priest into this holy place?” the bishop demanded. The older man's face turned even paler.

“Defrocked?” he gasped.

“I did it myself!” the bishop said hotly. “Stealing from the poor box was only one of his many crimes; I had thought the Holy Mother Church to be well rid of the pest. And now he is here!”

“Well I.... oof!”

The elderly priest gasped as the interloper surged past him and sprinted for the side-door.

“After him!” the bishop urged.

“Do not worry”, I reassured him. “That was why we stopped at the police station before coming here. They have men outside both the doors.”

I was feeling pleased with myself at having exposed a criminal in this way so what happened next came as a terrible if perhaps deserved shock. The single worshipper stood up and removed his capon then turned to face us. He was as I had guessed Mr. Harry Buckingham but.... oh Lord above! I could not suppress a gasp. He was the image of the late Lord Tobias Hawke!

֍

The county police duly did their job and the cells at Marlborough's police station soon had an extra occupant.

“What I would like to know”, Mr. Buckingham said later as we sat over coffee at a small restaurant just past the main church, “is _why_ he did it.”

I was having hard work to hide my feelings at this point. It was like I was this boisterous seven-year-old once more and this beautiful Greek god of a man was sat opposite me, even if the Adonis earning admiring looks from all around was six years my junior, not over a decade my senior. And I remembered what had happened to poor Lord Tobias so soon after this scene had played out all those years ago in my mother's kitchen. I shuddered despite the warm day and Watson looked at me anxiously.

“I am afraid that I must reveal a familial scandal to you”, I said. “It concerns your aunt Elizabeth.”

“I am sure that she is a good lady”, Mr. Buckingham said hotly.

“But one determined to have her own way”, I said, “whatever the price. When she met a man whom she knew her family would not accept, she acted with great cunning. She introduced him to them as a Mr. Simeon Hebburn and as she had expected they rejected him outright. After an elopement and a short-lived marriage she conceded that they had been right all along and agreed to leave him, then almost immediately married a much more agreeable fellow called Mr. Kevin Winteringham.”

“I know all this”, the young man said warily.

“What you do _not_ know is that Mr. Simeon Hebburn and Mr. Kevin Winteringham are in fact one and the same person”, I said. “Winteringham is his real name; the sole purpose of 'Mr. Hebburn' was to enable him to marry your aunt as the lesser of two evils. But he aimed even higher. He knew that if you converted to another faith before you married then you would lose your inheritance and disinherit any children as well, leaving his own wife to be next in line. Although I do not like to say it, I do not believe your aunt would have lived long to enjoy her husband's ill-gotten gains.”

“The blackguard!” the young fellow said fiercely.

“Indeed”, I said. “He also took the precaution of threatening the reappearance of the imaginary first husband to further divert any suspicion that may have arisen. I have a request to make of you, young sir.”

(It seemed so odd calling him that because part of me was still that seven-year-old hero-worshipping the image of this gentleman across our kitchen table, while in reality I was talking to a fellow younger than I.)

“Of course”, he said.

“I would like to be the one to break this to Lord Theobald”, I said. “I have all the official documents which I would be able to show to him beforehand so as to soften the blow. I think it would be much better that way.”

“I know how much my dear uncle feels about family”, the boy smiled. “Yes, that would be fine.”

֍


	4. Chapter 4

Bishop William wished to spend a night in the town so once I was sure he had arrangements in place for his return north we ourselves headed back to Savernake Junction from where we took a carriage to Collingbourne Kingston and Brunton House. We were duly admitted and I was able to explain matters to Lord Theobald Hawke well enough. Although he was barely two years older than his nephew whom we had just parted from, he looked at least twice his age.

The nobleman looked at me sharply.

“I am to take it”, he said, “that if you have found out one thing about my family's recent history, then you have found out two?”

“The minute I saw Mr. Buckingham I knew exactly who his father really was”, I said. “It must have been a shock, your brother leaving you such an unexpected legacy.”

Watson looked at me in surprise.

“What?” he exclaimed. The nobleman nodded.

“Poor Toby went to pieces after that harlot left him”, he said. “He... as they say it only takes one time.”

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“You must know that my grandfather, Lord Stephen, resigned the title when my father came of age”, he said. “He was never one for running things but when Toby died, he had to come out of retirement and take control again for a while. And the poor boy was barely cold before he had a visit from a Mrs. Jane Platt. Her sister Sarah had slept with Toby and was pregnant with his child.”

“Your grandfather was sure the boy was his blood?” I asked carefully. He looked at me and sighed.

“Sarah Platt was a novice nun!” he said. “The odds were pretty much in favour, I would say. She died giving birth to the boy and my grandfather determined that he should succeed to the title and continue Toby's line. Besides he knew that Mary had been warned against having children and as for Elizabeth having any role in things – I do not know which was worse, her air-headed self or that useless husband of hers!”

“Mary's husband Henry was wonderful; he agreed to go abroad with his wife immediately and they returned with Harry as their own child. The only servants who knew were all devoted to poor Toby and my grandfather made sure that they were all right. It all seemed to be working out so well with Harry set to inherit after all – until he went and grew up into the image of his real father!”

“Were there no paintings of Lord Toby?” Watson asked.

“My grandfather put them all into storage”, he said. “I had them moved later; I could not risk Harry seeing them and making the connection, and I told everyone that he took after my grandfather which was partly true.”

He looked at us appealingly. 

“I know that my own broken body can never have issue so Harry is all I have left. He is such a bright young thing, like his father in both body and spirit, but I feared with all this – a shock broke my dear and wonderful brother Mr. Holmes, and I could not carry on if another broke his only son.”

“You have my solemn word that I will never tell him this”, I said firmly. “I know that they say truth will out but he deserves every effort being made so he can become what his father – as you say, his real father – could and by all rights should have been.”

“For that you have my eternal thanks”, the nobleman smiled.

֍

“It is all rather sad”, Watson said as we stood at Savernake Junction once more, waiting for our train back to London. “Such a beautiful young man yet the Fates are so cruel to him.”

“Beauty comes in many forms”, I said, perhaps a little sententiously. “But from our brief conversation I have to agree that he is pleasant enough. And like his real father, it is rare that the beauty within matches the beauty without. You thought him beautiful?”

He blushed fiercely. I could imagine him silently calculating how many 'man points' he had lost by using that word.

“In the Classical way”, he said defensively. “Like one of those Greek statues come to life, although they are but cold marble.”

“It is little known that the Ancient Greeks did actually paint their statues so as to make them even more lifelike”, I said. “Only Victorian morality means we have to have them unpainted in this day and age so that people will be less shocked by a naked man in the room.”

“He is not unlike Mr. Billingsley”, Watson mused. “Although they are of course not actually related.”

“Beauty can only take one so far”, I said. “And it is as they say so often in the eye of the beholder.”

“Whereas you of course are beautiful within”, Watson said casually.

I just looked at him.

And looked at him.

“ThanktheLordthatisourtrain!” he said, perhaps a shade too fervently. “I need to use the facilities before we go.”

He all but fled into the Gentleman's toilets. I stared after him curiously.

֍

_Postscriptum: Mr. Winteringham_ alias _Mr. Hebburn fled the country when his ramp was exposed and had the good grace never to show his face in England ever again. His abandoned wife was mortified at her ramp being exposed and also left for parts distant; I do not believe that she was missed by anyone much. I do not know what happened to 'Father Humilis' who after a spell in gaol was last reported to have gone to London (hopefully the bottom of the Thames if there was any justice)._

_I had not seen the last of Mr. Harry Buckingham for he would reappear in several further adventures of mine and Watson's as I strove to keep from him the sad truth about his past. It would be over three decades before I would return to Wiltshire for what would be my penultimate case ever – when I would seek to destroy the marriage of Lord Harry's son, another Lord Tobias!_

֍


End file.
